


Insulate Every Tomorrow

by baylop



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Child Abuse, Developing Friendships, Emotional Constipation, Eventual Romance, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Multi, Slavery, Slow Burn, War, Yondu's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 15:39:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11421036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baylop/pseuds/baylop
Summary: Yondu is a master at compartmentalizing the years of his life.





	Insulate Every Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> This is written in second-person. I know, that’s like, the worst if it’s something other than a reader insert, but if you’re here you might as well try it, maybe? FYI, I’m rolling with the idea that Centaurians hit their neurotypical developmental milestones (including communication) more quickly than humans. Chapter titles are lines from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “The Arrow and the Song”, which was approximately 12% of the inspiration for this fic.

 

 

**[6 Arcs of Anthos]**

The sweeties taste like kruna. They come in shiny wrappers that crinkle, and Miss Mora lets you eat as many as you want. She laughs when you tuck away the wrappers to keep.

(Miss Mora is nice. You don’t get why so many hiss at her and the Pink Man when they visit the village. True, she smells like a hor-ot-ot and talks funny. But that ain't so bad.)

Mama and Papa talk to Miss Mora and the Pink Man a whole lot. They use their High Words, the ones you don’t know. Just grown ups and their secrets. Maybe if you shared the sweeties...

You try, but they keep talking and don't look at you. Belly full, you wait and wait and wait.

Mama crosses her arms tight. “Stand up for them, Yondu.”

When you do, Miss Mora bends your arms and legs, this way and that. Feels your neck, then at your sides where it tickles. Tugs at your _tahlei_. You try to squirm away. 

“Be still,” Papa says.

You listen. There’s more poking. You wait for it to be over.

Miss Mora steps back and says strange words to the Pink Man. Ain’t High or Low, but something else. He points a chirping box at you, and it turns you green all over. It’s real pretty. You try to touch it, but the Pink Man holds it high. He nods at Miss Mora before hiding the box away. They both look happy.

The Pink Man pulls a small pouch from his belt. Papa takes it and gives it to Mama, who wiggles her fingers inside. Things rattle like yaka rocks as she digs around.

“What is it?” you ask.

More High Words. Lotta loud ones. Mama turns away from you. Papa doesn’t. He looks like a dead caru-zok. Like the ones you ain’t supposed to touch when they cook on the fire.

Your crest flares. “Papa? What —  ”

Something stings real bad. You feel dizzy. The world falls away.

So do you.

 

*

 

**[10 Arcs of Anthos]**

The hands grabbing your arms shove you forward. A Centaurian lady stares at you across the open space, _tahlei_ flattened down. She’s the first grown up of your kind you’ve seen since your Arrival. Others —  all _Kree_ , one of the few strange words you’ve been taught here, along with _slave_ and _follow_ —  watch from all around. Some you know. The Trainers. Guards. Even the Pink Man.

(You turn away when you see him, before you do something the Trainers will punish you for.)

“Eyes on me,” the lady says. Her Low Words make your head snap up. “And come over here.”  

You do as you’re told, because things always go better when you do. Walking closer, you see her _tahlei_ ain’t flattened at all, but gone. Cut off. The sight of it makes your own wilt, and you feel sick.

You want to stop, but you don’t.

Closer still. There’s a deep scar over her lips. One of several you can make out as she stands in her robes, and —

Her hits to your body come without warning. The only sounds in the room are the smacks on skin and your own helpless cries. She sends kicks to your sides when you cover your face. Gives punches to your temples when you fall, curling and holding your belly. There’s so much blood you're slick with it. Makes you cry harder, louder, though nobody around cares.

A heavy kick to your back knocks all the air outta you. Your hands ball into fists on the floor as you shake, hiccuping in breaths. “Stop it! Stop!”

The lady rears back enough to circle you. “You angry? Then fight me,” she says, kicking you again. “But if you’re tired, if it’s too much, stay down. You’ll get taken to a place where that’s all you’ll ever do.”

Another kick, and the pain makes everything go fuzzy. “I don’t —  I ain’t  —  ”

The lady stamps her foot into the side of your face. Your cheek squishes into the floor. She holds you there, leaning in and down so her face stays hidden to everybody else. “You _are_ ,” she whispers, barely loud enough for you to hear. “You have to be. To get strong, to live. To get out someday, and be free of this —  I’ve seen it done. But you gotta fight for it, if that’s what you want. Stand more pain than what I’m givin’ you here. So choose what you’re gonna do  —  before these Kree dirtslugs do it for you.” With that, she rises. Her foot still pins you, but she lifts her weight just enough.

You understand.

You think of spicemilk and mud marshes and the hoot of a gizzo-ak. Of Mama and Papa, and asking them _why_.

You decide.

She grunts as you rake her leg with your nails, stepping away, but not far enough. You roll onto your knees and spring forward with speed to make Anthos proud. You push into her as hard as you can, and when she don’t move, you get to hitting. High, low. Whatever you can reach, eyes following the swish of her robes. When she hits you back and sends you spinning, you push up and rush again. Hit, fall, run. Over and over and over. Until her grey robes are blue black with your blood. Until your voice dies from hollering. Until Kree hands pull you away.

You battle the empty air as you go.

“Learn _who_ and _when_ to fight,” she hisses, words hidden by the parting shot she gives to your belly. “Endure what you have to.”

So you let yourself be dragged into another room, where you’re signaled to strip and hosed down with something that burns. You allow gloved hands to stick a lil’ piece of metal behind your head, even though it makes your eyes water. And when those hands pull at your _tahlei_ and talk above you in their own Kree tongue, you wait. Make yourself go still. Suck in heavy breaths, heart beating between your ears.

(You figure what’s coming. You hope for anything else, all the same.)

More hands hold you down, hold you straight. The blade starts at the top. It’s slow as it slices.

With your voice already gone, you find new ways to scream.

 

*

 

**[350 Hala Cycles]**

Base ain’t a place for much talking. Not for slaves. The Kree Uppers will whip you bloody for opening your mouth instead of following the hand signs you’ve been taught since Arrival, but now there’s more signals to learn, like _faster_ and _shoot_ and _finish it_. More importantly, you don’t have what the Uppers do to know all the different tongues, and few in your unit are Centaurian. Just Garax, who’s still mad at you for beating him in the spar pits, and Sasara, who can only spare so much time for you without getting caught.

There's also Enthi, who’s older and still has his _tahlei_. But he’s hardly around, since the Uppers are always taking him to the Ward.

(When you asked Enthi about that place, he twisted your ear so hard you were sure he’d torn it off. You haven’t spoken since.)

So you spend most of your time as a Grunt slave in silence. In the day rotations, the Uppers give you training drills. Have you hunt down F’saki to make you quicker and send you to the pits to make you stronger —  all of which you take, because you’re sure getting tougher brings you closer to getting out.

(You're still working on the _how_. You're starting to see that’ll take time.)

At night, you eat your rations and slip a new prize under your bed rags if you’ve found one. You don’t like to take out your growing collection in the open, even for a quick look-see. Too many eyes and grubby hands. So you feel for them instead, even in the dark. Seven different buttons, kept together on string. A mirror shard you found in a trash pile. A looped bit of snagwire. A piece of lace that’s gone fuzzy from how often you’ve brushed over it.

Little things, simple things, but entirely _yours_.

When the Uppers decide you’re good enough, you follow the war deployments. Grunts like you collect the weapons and gear from the battle slaves who don’t need them no more, piling them high in carts for later use. Necroblasters and knives, belts and wrist holos. Sometimes a whole battlesuit, which the Uppers give you extra rations for.

It’s only during these treks that you hear words regularly —  strange shouts and whimpers and screams as you pry pistols from weakened fingers and yank boots off twitching feet.

Sasara always tells you not to think about it, because the Kree Uppers ain’t nothing but efficient in how they do things. You know what happens if they see you wasting time or resources putting someone outta their misery. You’ve seen it done. So you weigh what’s left of their lives against the stretch of your own, and you keep going —  though you still wonder what they’re saying.

Mostly, you wonder if they’re as angry as you are.

 

*

 

**[500 Hala Cycles]**

The order is signaled, and you drop down 40 bules to your destination with the rest of the Bait slaves. The ground is uneven and tacky beneath your boots —  crunches like severed flesh and bone —  but there ain’t time to dwell on it as you run. The Target is up ahead, Nova-grade blasters raised and ready, but you focus more on the pair of shoulders in front of you. That boy gets hit first, and when he falls, it’s your turn to fire.

You ain’t expecting the ground to shake as you get closer. Unease settles deep in your legs, slows your feet. But to stop is to quit, and to quit is to die. The Uppers’ faces fog at the front of your mind, your life nothing to them beyond kill counts and deployments logged. The ground rumbles even more. Goes warm. You push past the sense of _bhkta_ and continue on and on and on.

Because you ain’t dying here. You’re gonna be free someday, once you figure a way. You _ain’t gonna die_.

An electric crack surges underfoot, and darkness gets swallowed by bright light. Your feet leave the ground. A body slams into you, and something stretches. Pops.

It’s the smell of smoke that wakes you. When you open your eyes, Bait bodies twirl before you, engulfed in flames. You can’t hear their screams over the ringing in your ears. You tuck into yourself, just for a spell, and spit the ash from your tongue. There’s pain, and that’s good. Means your body’s still together. You take out your Necro pistol and stumble to your feet.

The remains of the Target closes in. Your wrist holo buzzes, and the image of an Upper —  soot-faced but bloodless —  comes into view. He signs for you to _finish it_. Quickly, you eye what’s left of the Bait that ain’t crisping. It’ll be five kills for each of you if nobody slacks. Simple enough. You channel what’s left of your energy into your limbs and charge.

The first three are easy to bring down with your pistol. Four comes from behind and hoists you up, fat fingers digging into the stub line of your _tahlei_ —  but that just makes him a dang fool, since all that’s there is deadened nerves. You unload a shot right under his chin, and his hold around you loosens enough for you to wiggle out.

Five don’t wait for you to touch the ground before barreling into you. She’s only a lil’ bigger and heavier than you as she pins your wrists into a rubble pile. Stupidly, you’ve dropped your Necro pistol, so you kick up instead, trying to buck her off.

Her face goes real still.

She says something as she looks at you, fingers letting go of your wrists. You don’t know the words, only that they ain’t Kree. She shakes her head, and tears pool in her eyes —  indigo eyes, you notice with a shudder, like Mama’s favorite _kospah_ —   

Her blood is hot. It spills down your hands where you’ve shoved the knife in. More gurgles out as you extract your weapon and roll away. She twitches until she stops, eyes still wet and open.

You drop a piece of scrap metal on her head so you don’t have to see.

The holo at your wrist buzzes again, and another Upper signals the way to follow. You wipe your knife on your armband before stashing it, and find your Necro pistol. Falling in line with your unit, you take in their faces, seeing who’s still left with curiosity more than anything else. Enthi is among them. His _tahlei_ runs down his spine now, though it’s covered in boils. _Too many visits to the Ward_ , Enthi had finally explained after enough of your asking. _Bastards kept testin’ on me like they did the Nova corpsmen they captured_. But Enthi don’t go to the Ward no more, and that’s good, since he’s the only other Centaurian left in your unit.

(Garax hadn’t survived the spar pits. Sasara got the Wasting last cycle, and the Uppers had made sure she didn’t spread it.)

As you walk on, a few Bait and Swarm slaves on the ground yell out to anybody who’ll hear, unable to keep up with their deep gut wounds or legs blasted away. Remembering Sasara’s words, you keep your eyes forward as they bleed out —  sentiment will only add you to their ranks. The Grunts go around collecting what they can.

You don’t miss the work.

Back at Base, you’re permitted to wash in the night rotation. You spot Enthi at the bathing platform, and you think of the Nova lady and her strange words. Enthi knows a lot more than the Kree Uppers give him credit for. And Enthi’d once said he’d had Nova bunkmates in the Ward...

“Need you to translate somethin’ Nova for me,” you say with Low Words, voice masked by the stream of brown water that’s piped in spurts.

Enthi growls. “Not earnin’ no whiplashes ‘cause of your yappin’, pouch brat.” He scrubs under his arms with a thimble of soap, before looking over his shoulder to meet your eyes. “Out with it quick-like.”

You repeat what the Nova lady said, fighting the urge to add clicks and whistles where they don’t belong.

“That ain’t Nova, idiot,” Enthi says. “By the by, there ain’t no Nova _language_. It’s a collection of —  never mind. Look, it’s _Xandarian_ , okay? That’s what’chu heard.”

“ _Xan_ - _dare_ - _ee_ - _uhn_ ,” you sound, throat twisting around the mouthful. “So what’d she say to me?”

“You’re just a child.”

“But what did she —  ”

“ _That’s_ what she said,” Enthi mutters. “You’re just a child.”

“Oh.” You think of the Nova Target and the Kree Uppers. The things they say to each other, words you can’t figure. It could be helpful to _know_. Another step towards getting free. “Wouldja teach me?”

“What, Xandarian?”

“Yeah. Maybe...a lil’ Kree, too. I can pay you. I gotta stash of —  ”

“Junk,” Enthi finishes irritably, rinsing off. He winces as the water hits his _tahlei_. “Whole unit knows what _you_ keep in your bed rags, and ain’t nobody want your crappy shinies. ‘Cluding me. So you wanna waste my time, you bring me somethin’ useful.” With that he stomps away, flinging the soap at your head for good measure.

It ain’t an outright refusal. Something useful...   

_Just a child._

Frowning, you wash away the blood and dirt, and watch it swirl into the drain between your toes. And if at night you dream of _kospah_ eyes and the grey grasses of home, it ain’t nobody’s business but your own.

 

*

 

**[550 Hala Cycles]**

You store the looted auto-injectables in your boots until it’s safe, four vials in all. In the night rotation, you pull them out in pairs to set before Enthi while he blinks himself awake.

“For your pain,” you whisper. “At your _tahlei_.” It’s a long moment, but eventually Enthi reaches for one of the vials. Good. You knock his hand away, quietly as you can. “Not for nothin’. For _tradin’_. You teach me Xandarian words and Kree, and I get’chu these. So we dealin’?”

Enthi shakes his head. “This stuff...it’s carefully guarded. How’d you —  ”

“I got my ways, and I can get more of ‘em right quick if I need to, once things settle. So this type of _junk_ useful enough to you, or what?”

“...Yes,” Enthi agrees. You think you hear him sigh, but it could just be a dainty snore from two bed rags over. It don’t really matter. Deal’s done.

When Enthi again tries to take a vial, you let him.

 

*

 

**[700 Hala Cycles]**

Enthi keeps his word. He teaches you the things the Kree Uppers say amongst themselves and how to read the paper scraps you lift from their barracks. How to identify the names of the Nova Star Blasters that rain plasma on you, and to know the next time a Target halts mid-battle to remark that you’re _just a child_. It all makes you a better fighter, and the Uppers never figure why, as you sneak painkiller vials to Enthi in the dark, sacrificing sleep to gain something better.

And if Enthi shakes all over when you gotta go a while without getting the meds, it ain’t nothing to worry about. You bring him more when you can, and he lets out a sated sigh when he slides the needle in, breaths evening out and body sprawling. Gives you new words to learn, the gaping sores on his _tahlei_ glistening in the moonlight when he tips back his head.

Some nights his eyes go far away, and he’ll tell you what he remembers of Centauri-IV, since he lived there for longer before his own Arrival. You sit through maudlin Xandarian-worded warbles about _kala_ and banyan carvings and fire dances until Enthi gets to the good stuff about yaka. About how you have to kill a great kru-zkik beastie to to earn the metal and the way a forged yaka weapon can zip through nearly anything.

“Even a whole row of armored Kree Uppers?”

“Feh. Plenty more than that, with proper practice. Nothin’ else like it across the stars,” Enthi says, before he seems to remember where he is. His _tahlei_ flattens in idle increments. “Shouldn’t say things like that,” he murmurs, rubbing his eyes and switching from Xandarian to Low Words.

You frown, both at what he’s saying and his reverting to a language that’s starting to mist in your mind. “Don’tchu wanna, though?” You don’t elaborate, but you don’t think you need to.

“Course I do. Ain’t nobody round ‘ere who don’tt. But...it ain’t happenin’.”

“If we had yaka, we could —  ”

“Ain’t you been learnin’? You get yaka from _home_...and we ain’t there no’mo. And...y’couldn’t use yaka anywayss.”

The eyes that sluggishly follow the sagittal stub line on your head feel more like a physical touch than they oughta. You bury the urge to duck your head, and jut your chin up at his _tahlei_. “And you _could_ , with a patchy crest like that?”

“...Sure I couldd. Nothin’ wrong...w’mine. But y’need...a new one. Geett iitt put’in and...an…” Enthi says more around a yawn, but it comes out a damn mess. Now and again he gets like this, all slow and sleepy and slurred speech.

You finger the extra injectables stuffed in your britches and wonder if giving him more will make him talk proper. When you offer one up Enthi accepts, face blissed out beyond recognition as another needle slips in.

“You’re real decent when you wanna be, Yondu. What were we babblin’ about, again?”

(You convince yourself that you’re both getting what you want.)  

 

*

 

**[950 Hala Cycles]**

The edges of an escape plan start to come together, and it all hinges on the metal thing inserted at the base of your skull. It’s existence is always tied to the loss of your _tahlei_ , so it ain’t an enjoyable reflection, but it’s a necessary one to understand what has to be done.

The metal thing —  the _action tracker_ , as Enthi calls it —  holds the promise of death. It has rules, and if you break any of them, knowingly or otherwise, the thing gives a low beep before detonating, sundering your spinal cord at where it’s embedded. Which, if you’re lucky to not be a durable species, ends you quick, as the alternative ain’t a pretty sight from what you’ve seen. So all in all, it’s in your best interest to understand _how_ the thing works, and more specifically, how to get it out without making it go boom, because you ain’t escaping unless you get rid of it.

Learning all the rules takes time, inquiry, and observing a long string of deaths.

Rule one of the tracker is that it don’t track where you go. The best proof of this you’ve got is that you ain’t been caught stealing the painkiller injectables from the Uppers’ med stocks yet in all the cycles you’ve been doing it. And while you’d like to think your pocketing skills might lead to a dishonest career of it someday, you ain’t so far up your own ass to not realize that if the tracker actually _tracked_ locations, you would’ve been caught ages ago.

Rule two is tricky: the tracker can go boom if you get outta range of all the Upper gridmasters who have parameter implants —  devices easy enough to spot once you know what you’re looking for (purple crown of lights on ugly Kree heads). You’d first seen this rule in action watching one of the gals in your unit trying to desert mid-deployment. She’d gotten pretty far too, up to the horizon line on foot, but then she’d keeled over as if struck by some invisible force. At the time, you weren’t sure what to make of it, but it kept happening. _Keeps happening still_ , every so often —  battle slaves of all classes running away, either during the thick of a fight or back at Base. Getting far, while the Upper gridmasters stand around and laugh if they happen to witness it, as if they’re seeing something wondrously novel while they go on about how _savages never learn_ in their Kree tongue. Sometimes they even make a game of it, with one gridmaster halfheartedly chasing along to delay the inevitable before walking backwards and letting the runaway keep on going until they fall, always in the same sort of way, to the cheers of the spectating Uppers. Cases like that, combined with the pleading words you can now decipher from the slaves who speak Xandarian or Kree who are left to die —  the ones unable to keep up with the ships and gridmasters returning to Base —  and the whole range-y thing starts to make sense. If you have a tracker and every gridmaster gets _too_ far, or if you do, it don’t end nice.  

Rule three is the simplest: nobody with a tracker can take out somebody else’s, or their own. You’ve watched more slaves try variations of this than you’ve got chin hairs, but no matter their method of choice —  broken glass, rusty daggers, filed rocks, fingernails —  once somebody gets to carving back there, the tracker sets off and it’s another body or two to add to the death count.

Rule four —  and most critical —  is that a tracker can be removed by somebody who ain’t never had one to begin with. This you learn from Enthi on one of the nights he’s in enough of a mood to talk about the Ward. He tells you about one of his earliest bunkmates, a Xandarian Nova pilot, whose tracker was inserted like all the rest —  because slave or war prisoner experimentee, ain’t nobody exempt from getting a lil’ metal tagalong. A pilot who, after finishing his first round of testing, had waited for the room to clear before grabbing a medic and forcing him to cut out the tracker. Guy had made it outta the compound and stolen a ship. Taken it up high, only to be shot outta the sky by a Kree vessel. So he hadn’t made it, but he’d gotten _away_. Died free.  

And as you give yourself the time to ponder the pesky rules, the right conditions needed to escape coalesce like the sticky bits of prot-worms in your ration bars. To start with, you’ll need outsiders other than the Nova Target —  who don’t stop blasting at you long enough to chat now that you ain’t a skinny pouch brat —  to turn up on a battlefield. Ideally, these hypothetical outsiders will have a ship, but at minimum will need to remove your tracker —  something you’re fairly confident you can make happen after a few rounds with your fists or something pointy. And all of this will need to happen in the presence of an Upper gridmaster...or at least their activation implant.

Feeling confident in your thought process, you tell Enthi and ready yourself for heaps of praise, but he only grumbles something vaguely insulting before going back to bed. Which —  fine —  see if you end up taking him with you. His ass can rot on Base forever for all you care.

Enthi don’t know _shit_. It’s a workable plan. You’re sure of it. You’ll do it.

It’s just a matter of waiting for the correct circumstances to align.

 

*

 

**[1,150 Hala Cycles]**

Another day rotation, another deployment, and as far as planets go, Eclector ain’t nothing special. It’s rocky, arid, and barren of most life, with only the dust storms and crumbling cave fronts to spice up the nothingness, making it the perfect sort of planet for the Kree and Nova forces to continue their 50,000 cycle-long war on.

Work as a Launch slave is all about isolation. From your place against a mountain face, an Upper signals you via wrist holo to shoot down every Nova ship on sight as they approach. You pick out the immediately recognizable fanning prongs of metal and wait for a Star Blaster or Heliocraft to get stupidly low enough. Engage the Necro canon stabilized between your knees. Reload, fire, repeat. Things explode. No fuss at all.

But that’s when you see it, see _them_ , because it’s the ship’s name that gives it away.

For the past 400 cycles, Nova ships have all been named after people (hoity-toity Xandarian historical figures, you’d reckon), so a Heliocraft called the _Taur_ dodging gunfire among the rest before drifting outta formation is immediately suspect. You squint. Scrub the sweat from your eyes just to be sure —  but yeah, ship’s called _Taur_ , not _Pyreus Kril_ or _Mexxa Rien_ or some such. The Heliocraft weaves itself further away from the fleet, and if you’ve learned anything about the Nova Targets,  it’s that they don’t run things solo. Whoever’s flying the _Taur_ ain’t with them.

So...outsiders with a Nova ship, then —  to what end you can’t figure —  but it don’t matter. Your heart leaps so high in your throat that you have to swallow it down again.

You follow the _Taur_ ’s descent as it dives into a cave 100 bules away from where you’re crouched. Then the choice comes —  to follow and see if your hunch is correct and escape is _today_ , or stay in the thick of things like the Uppers have ordered you to do. But when an actual in-the-flesh Upper gridmaster lopes past you, oblivious to where you’re sandwiched in a rock crevice because _that’s the fucking point_ , there ain’t no choice but the right one.

Aerial explosions cover your footfalls and a slew of dust does the rest —  a slide, a lunge for all you’re worth, a swipe with the butt of your Necro canon —  plus the liberal use of snagwire, and you’ve caught yourself one ugly Kree Upper. Flipping your prize supine once you’ve bound him, you make sure to gag him good and smash both of your wrist holos before hauling him up and over your shoulders. Ugly’s a few grets heavier than you were anticipating, but it’s only a minor miscalculation. You leave the canon.

The lil’ lights of his parameter implant guide the way as the sand swirls all around, settling on your bodies until it’s a skin of its own over the battlesuits. You ain’t bold enough to tempt fate by looking back, but whether anybody spies your desertion or not, nobody puts a bullet in you. Reaching the mouth of the cave before it plummets into inky black, you toss off Ugly and slap a hand to the ground. The earth vibrates under your fingertips, the steady hum of a Heliocraft on standby mixing with the far off noises of the high-stakes light show behind you. You figure the _Taur_ ain’t gone too far in, wherever it’s parked.

Ugly starts to roll around in the dirt. Whines around the gag, spittle already collecting at the edges.

“None of that, or I’mma shove another sock in your yapper.” You flick one of his implant lights. “Wish I could just take your head without the rest of you, but I ain’t sure I can kill you without doin’ myself in, too. Least while I still got this here tracker in me. And since I don’t think you’re gonna help me remove it” —  Ugly’s eyes are liquid fire in their loathing —  “I gotta chase down some suckers who can. So you’re comin’ with me.”

Ugly shouts against the gag, but you don’t pay him no mind as you grab his scruff and drag him into the cave. The light dwindles the further you go in, but Ugly’s implant keeps the journey from veering into total darkness, even if you can only see a few bules in front of your feet. It’s pretty straight going, and you wonder if this might be a tunneled pathway instead of a true cave. Occasionally, a grey crystal pokes through the mineralized formations, and that’d be something you’d investigate further if your freedom weren’t taking precedent.

There ain’t nothing to gauge time as you keep walking. Everything starts to look the same —  just as the Heliocraft hum peters out.

(If your pace starts to pick up, you tell yourself it’s just the eagerness in you and not the dread that maybe you got this all wrong, that the ship has gone too deep into Eclector’s innards to reach on foot or that you’ve misunderstood how the ranging of the parameter implant works —  that it won’t be enough to have only _one_ of the Upper gridmasters tagging along or that the wireless connection keeping you alive so far from the rest cuts off after a certain depth.)

You can’t be wrong about this. It ain’t an option.

So you press on, consumed by the darkness and cannibalized by your doubts until you’re manic with it, dragging Ugly with enough fervour to make him cry out around the gag. The grey crystals get bigger and slice at your limbs, and the cold bites at you through newly exposed skin, but nothing is worse than your desperation as you plow forward.

_Got through all of this. Every damn day, kept going and this is how it...why? What for?_

The wave of voices nearly bring you to your knees. You follow them like they’re all that’s left in the galaxy. The closer you get the clearer the voices become, until you can make out a steady word stream in Xandarian tongue.    

“Don’t get pissy about it. You lost fair and square.”

A loud laugh. Carefree. “Since when have us Ravagers been in the business of doin’ things _fair_ , darlin’...now what say you, Charlie boy?”

“Well normally, I’d point out it’s not in my best interest to pick sides…”

“But...”

“...but ultimately, if I had to, your wife is always the soundest choice.”

A different laugh, more melodic. “ _Hell yes_ I am. Now are you ready to admit defeat, my love?”

“You know I never do.”

You press up behind a tall cluster of crystals and take a gander at who you’re dealing with. Three, alone with their glowlights, few visible weapons, a hoard of multicolored shinies at their feet, and no _Taur_ in sight.

And inexplicably, two of them have gotten close and mushed their mouths together.

The littlest one is first to pull away from the mushing and smiles in a way you ain’t familiar with. “Deal’s a deal, _captain_. Now you get to haul while we go call for Krugarr.”

You watch as the littlest and the biggest retreat, glowlights fading into the murk of the cave until they go absent from your sight. It leaves you the stocky one to deal with first —  who stoops down with a long leather bag, stuffing the piles of shinies inside. You ain’t sure why your hands are trembling, but you bunch them into your ripped battlesuit to keep them busy while you think on how best to do things, noting the holstered blasters and at least two blades the stocky one has.

But busying your hands means letting go of Ugly, who starts to inchworm away and into view. His muffled protests pick up as you scramble to pin him down, but even then he’s _too loud, dammit all_. You ram his head into the crystals, and while it certainly don’t kill him, it does get him quiet and marginally less wiggly.

The purr of a charged plasma blaster against the shell of your left ear is mighty unfortunate, but altogether expected.

“So here’s what you’re gonna do, pal. One, you’re gonna tell me who you are. Two, you’re gonna tell me who’s struggling under you. And three, you’re gonna tell me why you’re down _here_ when there’s a d’asted war going on outside. And I want the real answers for all of it, not some version of events you think’ll keep you alive. Mind you, I can sniff out a lie better than most anyone. You lie to me, and I'll give you a new ear hole courtesy of my gun quicker than it’ll take you to regret it. Am I makin’ myself understood?”  

Your head jerks for a nod. There’s a dagger stuffed in your boot, close enough to reach as you’re forced to keep straddling Ugly.

It’ll have to do, if that’s what it comes to.

“So, one.” Your voice is scratchier than you’d like, but there ain’t nothing to be done for it. “I’m...I ain’t got a name. Not around piss stains like this.” You dig your knees deeper into Ugly’s sides, making his muted swearing start anew,  just because you can. “But I go by Yondu, or at least, that’s what I was born as. What my parents _picked_ for me —  before they sold my body to serve the Kree in any way they saw fit. And for two, I couldn’t tell you what this guy’s name is. Don’t care, neither. He’s an Upper —  a Kree command officer —  and he runs slave units like mine. Right now, holdin’ him is keepin’ me alive. Slaves have to stay in range of one of these Kree types unless they’re lookin’ to be dead. We all got metal trackers implanted that blow up if we get too far away. Keeps us from runnin’. Tracker is here, see?”

It’s a risk, moving a hand to touch the base of your skull, to point to a puckered whorl of flesh, done only for the benefit of another. You do it anyways, and breathe a little better when the blaster at your ear gets pulled back a few microbules. “Got it put in me young. So I guess that brings me to three. I’m here with _him_ because I need...I need to make a deal with you.”

“Look at me. Slowly.”

You hate the way you don’t hesitate to comply with the order. How it’s practically been made _habit_ , even coming from a stranger. Maybe that shows somewhere on your face, because when you lock onto hardened brown eyes, the eyebrows go up all apologetically. You ain’t sure what he —  and you’re pretty sure it’s a _he_ —  sees as his clinical gaze scans you over, at least beyond a _tahlei_ -less blue-skinned slave plastered in dust and blood and scars. But you don’t like the staring, so you do it right back to him.

The guy ain’t no more than 500 cycles older than you. He wears an ill-fitting Nova uniform, and much like the ship he came from (which is still nowhere around), it’s an outdated model. One of the three circle lights on his chest plate flickers.

“Alright. Say I believe you.” The blaster pulls back a little more. “What kind of deal are you after, Yondu?”

The utterance of your name by somebody else —  not since Enthi —  makes you flinch in surprise. You’re quick to shift it into anger. “Pretty bossy comin’ from a guy who ain’t told me _his_ name or who he is.”

Said guy manages to look shamed. He retracts his blaster so it’s still pointed towards you, but held down at his side. Even backs away a few steps. “Right —  that’s —  I’m Stakar. Captain of the Ravagers. My crew and I, we alleviate valuables from where they’re being wasted and relocate them to more considerate hands.”

“Stealing, you mean.”

He shrugs. “I like my own definition of Ravaging just fine.”

“I ain’t judging. Taken plenty of shit myself.”

(One thing in particular above all the rest. But that ain’t a thought you wanna follow.)

Stakar nods. Smiles. “So, about that deal of yours...”     

Your fingers twitch. The dagger still waits. You’re sure you’d get to use it before he’d even clip a shot off. Because right now, the guy ain’t fully right —  there’s something funny in his eyes, the kinda thing you’d see some of the new slaves come in with before it’d be beaten outta them. A thing like _hope_ , only the type you give to somebody else, where you don’t assume they wanna rip it all to bits. You know there’s a word for that. Enthi had taught it to you.  

 _Trust_ , was it? What a thing. Could you ever…

“I need you to do somethin’ for me,” you finally say, getting to your feet. Ugly flops around as you step over him but you don’t care. Guy ain’t going nowhere tied in snagwire. “My tracker —  I need you to take it outta me. Now, here.” You look away so you don’t have to see his reaction. Press on before you lose the words. “And after you do, I need you to take me with you in that _Taur_ of yours, wherever you’re hidin’ it. I need to leave here. That’s my deal for you.”

When you make yourself look back, Stakar’s eyes have hardened again and his mouth is a tight line. “That ain’t a deal,” Stakar says, but his voice is soft as he re-holsters his blaster and slowly tugs a hotblade from his Nova chestpiece.

When he comes nearer, the blade dangling between his fingers, you pummel your instinct to initiate a _Target response_. Can’t get a tracker out without the slicing part, assuming that’s what he’s aiming to do. This _trust_ thing is on a trial basis, after all, ship captain or not. You bite the inside of your cheek. “How do you go about becoming a Ravager, anyways?”

Stakar’s face lights with a touch of emotion you ain’t never seen before. “Ask me again when we get off this planet in one piece.” He flips the hotblade on, and again you force the urge to _finish it_ to go away. “I suppose we can do this standing if you’re still enough.”

“Like a statue,” you reply, training you eyes into the distant gloom as Stakar disappears behind you.

The hand he claps onto your shoulder makes you bristle, and he pulls away. “Sorry, I —   _sorry_.”

 _Just a child_.

“Put your hand back,” you snap. “I know you gotta touch me. Your hand’s clammy, is all. I’ll manage.”

The hand returns, but the tentativeness of it makes your fists clench. Something damp rubs over the back of your neck, and a thumb prods there carefully. “Well shit. Not as deep as I was expectin’.”

“Can’t go no deeper without goin’ into the spinal cord. Though I guess that’s the idea. Now get on with it already. What’chu waitin’ for?”

You can only hear the rush of breath Stakar lets out through his teeth. “Easy now. Just don’t want to do this wrong.” The hand at your shoulder is feather light now. “I don’t —  ”  

“Cut it outta me. I can’t —  it’s gotta be you.” Stakar’s hesitation lingers, but you ain’t gonna beg. You won’t be weak. You might not get another chance, but you ain’t gonna debase yourself, you’ve never —  “Please. You help me and...and I’ll do anything you want. _Anything_. Just... _please_.”

The pause is too long for your liking until the hotblade rises up to your neck. It ain’t close enough to singe as it hovers, but you still feel the licking tendrils of heat.

“You...don’t gotta owe me nothing for this. I’m glad to do it.”

It’s the last thing he says before the blade parts and curls skin with a hiss. There’s pain, but that's been a constant —  you’ve known pain so long in all its forms it don’t matter. It goes quick. Gets smothered by the sensation of being _free_ as Stakar presses the melted remains of the tracker into your waiting palm. The thing’s wrapped in cloth, but you know what it is and what it now means as you tuck it under your belt.

The first shiny of a new collection.

Gingerly, Stakar walks around to face you, eyebrows knitting together. “You okay, then? Didn’t sever anything, did I?”

The words want to form, but everything bubbles up together and a whistle is all that comes out. You’ve never felt lighter —  in the dim swathe of the cave, you’ve never felt _brighter_.

A familiar hum sounds off in the distance and Stakar grins. “Ride’s here.”

If this is a dream you ain’t gonna wake. “So you and your crew always fly around in a Heliocarrier, or just when you’re tryin’ to loot things around a Nova-Kree battlezone?”

Stakar laughs. “And here I thought we were bein’ subtle. Went through a lot of hassle to get that stinkin’ ship and uniforms to match.”

“Real waste,” you say, the corners of your mouth tugging up. It’s an unfamiliar thing that makes the muscles there ache, but it ain’t so bad.

Stakar’s hand that cups your arm is slow to do so, giving you the option to back away if you want, but you let it. “Now, I wouldn’t say that.”

It’s too soon to say, but you think you might follow this man across any universe.

The steady hum builds to a buzz and the _Taur_ floats into view. “To answer your question, we got ourselves a better ship than this one. Faster, more space.” His face falls suddenly. “Room on a Heliocarrier is limited. Enough for you, but we can’t take every...what I mean is…” he sighs, and you know where this is going, “are you leavin’ anyone behind? People important to you?”

You manage to shake your head. “Don’t really know the ones I’ve lived with. All of us speak different languages, and slaves don’t get translator implants. Only had a few of my kind around and they’re all gone now.”

You think of Garax, face caved in by somebody more skilled in the spar pits, who curled against you in the early days after your Arrival. Of Sasara, struck by sickness and torched alive in her bed rags, who shared her rations when yours were withheld for not reaching a high enough kill count. Of Enthi, who’s _tahlei_ had finally blackened and sloughed off in the showers. Who had touched the dead clumps of flesh as they collected on the wet tiles before rushing into the Ward, naked and unafraid, shouting in Kree and throwing lab instruments out the highest windows before leaping out himself. Enthi, who —  after you’d stopped giving him painkiller vials —  had bitterly kicked at you in the night rotation for 25 cycles before ultimately resuming your teaching.

“I’m sorry,” Stakar says, and there ain’t pity in his voice but you don’t like what’s there all the same. Don’t feel worthy of it.

“I’m ready.”

You go forwards together, Stakar insisting on carrying the leather bag of pilfered shinies himself. You only get halfway to the _Taur_ before Ugly flounders into your path, seemingly insulted at being forgotten.

Stakar toes a rock towards him none too gently. “I’m guessin’ you wanna handle this?”

“Go on,” you say. “I won’t be long.”

You undo the gag first, and ready yourself for a glob of spit to the face, but Ugly only wheezes and gurgles. The snagwire is next. You aim to work your way down, so you start at the wrists and elbows, unraveling each knot with careful consideration.

“What are you planning to do to me?”

Your eyebrows rise in wry amusement. “What do you think?”

“Fucking primitive.” A hand shoots out towards you and clips above your eye. A second surges for your abdomen, but you’re ready for it. Ain’t no thing at all to re-loop the snagwire around the first errant hand and capture the wrist of the other.

“Let go of me.” Ugly’s wrist jerks in your hand. “Let go or I’ll...I’ll have your face blasted out to every Kree providence in the Empire. See how long your _savior_ lets you tag along when you can’t take a shit without 10 bounty hunters getting a whiff of it. Price tag will be so high they’ll fight each other just for the pleasure of bringing you back to us. So I’m ordering you to let me go.”

You twist his wrist in front of him, your face angled down until it’s nearly horizontal. “What, don’t like bein’ held?”

“That’s what this is about?!” Ugly sneers. “You want to make a _point_ to me, now? You’re property, plain and simple —  ”

“No,” you correct. “I’m Yondu Udonta from the mud marshes, the grey grass, and that nonexistent fucker Anthos up high.” You snap bones with the ease of breaking dirt clods. Ahead, Stakar waits for you patiently, the _Taur_ and his crew behind him. Your body thrums with a thousand possibilities, all of them better than everything that’s come before. “And you ain’t never gonna have me again.”

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
